


The tale of the Artist and the Fisherman

by CamilleDuDemon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bad Titanic References, Character Study, Domestic, Fish Gutting, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Will Loves Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:45:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: “How do I smell?”Hannibal lets out a loud, appreciating sigh.“You smell of guts, pine needles and fresh water...”Will Graham can't help but giggle, shaking his head and retrieving another trout from the bunch he fished in the afternoon.“I smell awful, basically. How comforting.”Hannibal's grip tightens around his slender waist.“Don't you dare to diminish your wonderful scent, Will”, he gently reprimands.Will shrugs slightly.“You wanted to draw me, right? Then do it. There are just four fishes to gut left, and I honestly don't think that a drawing made out of rush can be as beautiful as a patiently pondered one...”Hannibal scoffs, but deep inside Will knows he's gloating because he managed to instill a basic sense of aesthetics into the unrefined creature he was before meeting him. It took him time and dedication, but...here they are.





	The tale of the Artist and the Fisherman

“I'd like to draw you like this...”

Will flinches at first, then a faint smile slightly curls his lips. Although he has been living with Hannibal for three years now, he isn't good enough yet at listening to the soft tapping of his silent feet on the floor.

The sharp blade of his knife slices easily through the trout's soggy flesh and ends its run with a sloppy, gurgling sound just a few inches from the tail.

He doesn't even bother to turn, fully aware that Hannibal is staring at him with his charcoal in mid air and a half smile on his lips, his sensitive eyes capturing the very moment, ready to immortalize it on a premium quality sheet.

The former FBI agent grins, inserting a pair of fingers into the squishy belly of the fish and carefully ripping out its guts. Hannibal will soon skin it and turn it into some of his haute cuisine masterpieces, but now he's miles away from that mundane pleasure.

“Why, Hannibal? I'm just cleaning our dinner. I'm not sure I can make a good subject for a charcoal drawing, with my hands this dirty.”

Behind his back, Hannibal's lips curl into a smile.

A genuine, adoring smile.

“Because, my dear Will, you're always... _sublime_. But when your hands are stained with blood, _you are the very definition of beauty._ Even if it's the cold blood of some poor trout”, he states, running his fingers down Will's hips and taking a deep sniff of his scent.

“How do I smell?”

Hannibal lets out a loud, appreciating sigh.

“You smell of guts, pine needles and fresh water...”

Will Graham can't help but giggle, shaking his head and retrieving another trout from the bunch he fished in the afternoon.

“I smell awful, basically. How comforting.”

Hannibal's grip tightens around his slender waist.

“Don't you dare to diminish your wonderful scent, Will”, he gently reprimands.

Will shrugs slightly.

“You wanted to draw me, right? Then do it. There are just four fishes left to gut, and I honestly don't think that a drawing made out of rush can be as beautiful as a patiently pondered one...”

Hannibal scoffs, but deep inside Will knows he's gloating because he managed to instill a basic sense of aesthetics into the unrefined creature he was before meeting him. It took him time and dedication, but...here they are.

“Is this a challenge, Will?”, he asks. “Are you challenging me into making a portrait of you in a few minutes and make it look as beautiful as a...how did you say? Ah, yes... _a p_ _atiently pondered one.”_

The former profiler can sense the smug, smartass look on his face, with a raised brow and a faint smile curling his lips.

“Maybe...”, he vaguely teases.

Hannibal groans.

It's an amused groan, though.

“Stand still. I'm taking my sketchbook. If you dare to cheat...”

His sentence is left incomplete, but the gentle brushing of Hannibal's fingers against the long scar on Will's lower belly speaks eloquently.

A low mewl escapes Will Graham's lips.

“Let me guess...”, he purrs, “if I dared to cheat, you'd cut _me_ instead of these juicy trouts...”

Hannibal places his impossibly warm lips against his throat, grinning, then gently tugs at the thin skin with the tip of sharp teeth.

“Exactly”, he breathes.

Will shivers and, for a moment, he's truly tempted to cheat.

 

When Hannibal comes back from the living room, he's perfectly frozen in place, the trout on the cutting board still intact.

“See? I've been a good boy.”

Hannibal lets out a small, husky laugh.

“I had no doubts about your behavior, my dear Will”, he says, placing a quick kiss on his shoulder before moving a chair in front of him and elegantly opening his sketchbook on his knees.

“ _Now draw me like one of your french girls”_ , Will coos, blinking dramatically like a good old times diva.

“Titanic, Will? Really? How boring...I must admit that I appreciated the one-legged whore, though.”

“Boring? Titanic? What should I say about all those endless European films you forced me to watch?”

The former psychiatrist rolls his eyes and Will can't help but burst out laughing.

The sun setting behind his back gives his curls a fiery red shade, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders and the lovely wrinkles on the bridge of his nose.

“Shall we begin, Will?”

He nods.

Hannibal's charcoal starts to brush against the expensive paper, tracing fluent black lines on the smooth surface.

Will lets himself indulge into the simple pleasure of watching him while his expert hands begin to work automatically on the fish.

Feeling observed, Hannibal raises his brows. His eyes, however, seem to be glued to his drawing.

“Something on your mind, Will?”

The younger man sighs loudly, the blade of his knife soaked with blood and his fingers digging into the dead trout with clinical precision.

“I am happy, Hannibal”, he simply says.

Hannibal Lecter smirks.

_For the first time in years, he can finally feel at home._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
